


A Lovely Pair of Idiots

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, John can't not look after people, John has a nightmare, M/M, Sherlock Can't Sleep, Sherlock tucked up like a little burrito, a little cuddle, a little less conversation, a little more action please
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:45:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks of John, and worries.<br/>John wakes from a nightmare, and helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lovely Pair of Idiots

It only happens when he sleeps, so it's a rare enough occurrence that he doesn't bother worrying about it. Not every time, either, and it's always in the dead of night, when John is sleeping, or, less frequently, out with one dull girlfriend or another. So when Sherlock wakes in his bed, once again fully erect and with his head filled of fleeting dream-images of John, exposed and wanting and crying out in pleasure, he doesn't hesitate. He takes himself in hand and strokes slowly, letting his eyes flutter shut and sighing John's name. No reason to stop and analyse.  
  
John's asleep - or he was, until a few minutes ago. Nightmares aren't as regular an event as they used to be, but they still sneak up on him in the dead of night every so often. He's developed a coping mechanism for them; it seems to work, most of the time. Lie back, hold the sheets, deep breaths. Count backwards from 100, and then get some water. "One hundred. Ninety nine. Ninety eight," he starts to mumble to himself.  
  
Sherlock lets his mind settle on a single fantasy from his recent dreaming, something that's becoming a reoccurring theme: John in uniform, a captain again. But not back in Afghanistan, not away , never that. Always here in London, this flat; home. Always by Sherlock's side. John is his captain, his alone, and Sherlock is in complete surrender to him. Terrifying, or it should be, but it's nothing short of thrilling. Any fear is eliminated by the knowledge that he's with John. John is good, John is safe. Sherlock can let go as he's pressed against the wall, orders growled into his ear. Back on his bed, his strokes pick up speed, and he lets out a low, wordless groan.  
  
"Twelve. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eightsevensixfive fuck this, downstairs." John takes one final deep breath and pulls himself out of bed. He grabs his dressing gown (the kitchen's always cold in the middle of the night), shoves his feet into his slippers and opens the door to head downstairs. He doesn't bother switching any lights on - nights spent in cold, dusty, hostile situations will give you a heightened night vision and an acute awareness of everything around you; the orange glow from the streetlights outside provides more than enough light for him to see. He plods down quietly and slowly - he knows Sherlock hardly sleeps, and he doesn't want to disturb him.  
  
Sherlock pauses for a minute... Are those footsteps? But the sound fades away, and he can feel the lure of fantasy tugging at his mind again. It's manageable, usually, his attraction to John. A bit startling at first, but he'd grown accustomed to the longing. On nights like this, though, he finds himself getting lost to it. He slips into a different dream now, far more gentle, tender. A phrase comes into his mind, unbidden: making love. He's making love to John, and it's... pure vulnerability. He exposes himself with every movement, pouring his heart out without words, because his mouth is already occupied, tasting John, memorising him. In this dream, in every dream, John tastes just like he smells. Warm and wonderful. Completely John. Sherlock's mouth feels empty, cold, without John's skin to press it to, so he fills it with his name instead, moaning it softly.  
  
John finally reaches the kitchen, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of his dressing gown as he stands in the doorway. Water? Water, yes. Tea would be better, but an effort, and potentially noisy, so water it is. He hears a muffled sound coming from Sherlock's room, and figures he's mumbling in his sleep. He can't work out what he's saying, but John smiles to himself anyway. A decent sleep will mean a less irritable Sherlock in the morning. He reaches into the cupboard for a glass, and switches the cold water tap on. He turns the tap too far, too quickly, and the water comes shooting out. "Shit!" John hisses, dropping the glass into the sink, and hoping against all hopes that he's not woken Sherlock. The arm of his dressing gown is soaking wet now, so he pulls it off and throws it down in front of the washing machine, standing there in just his boxer shorts. He puts his hands on his hips, listening for any sign of Sherlock having been disturbed.  
  
In the half-second between when Sherlock realizes John's downstairs, that only a door is separating them, and when he remembers that this isn't a dream, he moans louder at the the idea that John could walk in at any minute, that they could see each other. Their eyes could meet, and Sherlock could feel that spark that always... He freezes. Oh, God. More than a bit not good. He hopes desperately that John hadn't heard, because he can't know about this. He can never know. Because if he does... Sherlock could lose him. Then fantasy would be all he had left of John. Not acceptable.  
  
Crap, John thinks. Was that the sound of Sherlock yawning awake, maybe? He walks quickly over to Sherlock's door, pushing it open an inch, hand braced against the cold wood, so he can whisper through the crack. "Sherlock? You awake? Sorry... Nightmare. Water."  
  
Sherlock bites his lip, taking a moment to push the fantasies to the back of his mind as he tries to steady his breathing. This is really happening, this John is real. This John is straight, protests at the very idea that he and Sherlock may be dating. "It's fine, John," he says, but his voice is lower than he intends it to be, and it falters on John's name.  
  
John pushes the door open a fraction more, peering in this time. Sherlock's room is lit dimly by a lamp in the far corner. "Sure?" He casts his eye over Sherlock, blankets bunched all around him, the only visible parts being his face and wild dark curls against his pillow.  
  
"You look a bit flushed, actually. You're overheating in all those blankets," he notes, starting to move forward. "You could be coming down with something, let me feel your forehead. See if you've got a temperature."  
  
"No, that's alright," Sherlock says, just as his mind says, _Yes, John_. He forces himself to look away from John, not meeting his eyes.  
  
"I feel fine." _Come closer, John. Look at me_. He holds on to the blankets tightly.  
  
"I just need some sleep." _I need you, John. Touch me_. He shifts on the bed, pulling away from John, when every fiber of his being is telling him to get closer.  
  
John smiles slightly, pausing in his approach. "You may 'feel fine', but I'm an actual licensed doctor, they gave me a medical degree and everything." He takes a few more steps, and kneels by the head of Sherlock's bed. He reaches a hand out, "Here, come here, you idiot," and places it on Sherlock's forehead, pushing a few errant curls out of the way as he does so.  
  
"Hm. Not overly warm, but a bit overheated. And really fucking sweaty, you git," he grins. He pulls his hand back, wiping it on the side of his boxer shorts, but doesn't move from his kneeling position. "Might be worth losing some of your covers, though."  
  
Sherlock can still feel the warmth of John's hand on his head, and he can just make out John's grin- and when John smiles, there's a word that echoes in Sherlock's head - brilliant - in the dim light. To recap: Sherlock Holmes is doomed. He shuts his eyes tightly and clings to the blankets. "I'm fine ," he snaps, or tries to snap, but he's a bit too distracted trying to keep himself from drifting into fantasy again to pull it off.  
  
"Sherlock," John says, with an eyebrow raised. He leans up and forward, grabbing the top of the covers, intending to uncover at least Sherlock's shoulders. "You will overheat like that, especially as you're already a bit warm. Come on, you. Or I'll go and fill that glass back up, and pour it on you."  
  
Cold water actually wouldn't be a bad idea at the moment. But Sherlock relents, at least a bit, pushing the covers down off his chest. His hand brushes John's as he does, and he shivers. He looks in John's general direction with a defensive glare, trying not to think about how close the man is. "Satisfied, Doctor?" he asks, then flinches slightly at his choice of words.  
  
"Yes, thank you. But stop scowling, it's not a very becoming look of you," he smiles. "Doesn't that feel better?" he asks, as he places his hand on the edge of the bed, about to push himself back into a standing position.  
  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, then pauses. John is going to leave. Maybe make some tea, read a book, trying to forget about the nightmare. Sherlock will be left to his night of fantasy and the peaceful, dreamless sleep that always follows. But with John here in front of him, Sherlock doesn't think that will be enough. It doesn't matter, though, does it? Sherlock just has to swallow his desire, let John walk away, and everything will return to normal, their normal, in the morning. Only now, Sherlock can breathe in the scent of John, and it's intoxicating him, making it harder for him to ignore the ache he feels in his bones, the one that's shouting at him to reach out and touch John. Something in Sherlock shatters, and he reaches out to grasp John's hand. "John," he says, his voice just above a whisper. "Stay."  
  
John gives a brief nod, and uses his free hand to push himself off the floor, and moves to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed. He doesn't move his other hand from Sherlock's. "All right," he agrees, with a small smile. He's captivated by how vulnerable and small Sherlock looks in the bed, no sign of the mask he assumes in front of other people. "Staying."  
  
Sherlock sighs. This is better. Infinitely better than any dream, any fantasy he could spin, because it's real. Because it's John. He ignores the heat in his groin, which is aching for attention, and he focuses instead on warmth . The warmth of John's hand in his, the warmth that washes over him because John doesn't pull away, because John is staying simply because Sherlock asked. "Thank you," he says, looking up at John. He yawns. "Nightmare... want to talk about it?"  
  
"No, not really. They're all a variation on a theme, I've learned to deal with them. This wasn't the worst, not by a long shot. But thank you, for asking." He pulls his hand from Sherlock's, rubbing the back of his neck. "Budge up, then. If I'm keeping you company, at least let me be comfortable, yeah?"  
  
Sherlock hesitates, then nods. He moves to the far edge of the bed and turns away from John, lying on his side. He settles himself in, making an effort to appear for all the world like he's ready to drift off to sleep, when he's quite certain he won't be getting any rest tonight. "Better?" he asks in a calculatedly sleepy voice.  
  
John climbs into the bed, and decides to lay flat on his back. He turns his head to look at Sherlock, who doesn't look very comfortable at all. "Yes, thanks," he answers. “Much.”  
  
He reaches out and flicks one of the curls at the bottom of Sherlock's neck. "You need a haircut," he laughs, before rolling onto his side and tucking his hand under the pillow.  
  
"Do I?" Sherlock fakes a yawn. "Remind me in the morning, then." He can't stop himself from leaning back, just a little, so that his bare shoulder brushes against John's. He sighs, then concentrates on keeping his breathing slow and even.  
  
"I will," John agrees. He can see the tension still in Sherlock's shoulders and back. "You're not comfortable. Are you sure you want me to stay? Your neck is going to hurt in the morning, if you stay that way. Relax, Sherlock."  
  
Sherlock nods. "Stay. Please. I'll be fine." He makes a conscious effort to relax, but keeps his movements firmly controlled, careful not to get too close to John. Too much contact would be dangerous, despite how badly he wants more. He finds a more comfortable position, still turned away from John.  
  
"OK, OK." John realises he's not going to convince Sherlock to actually relax, so he drops it. He's not entirely sure why he's been asked to stay; given that Sherlock so rarely lets his guard down this far, even for John, he's touched and flattered to have been given the opportunity. He's not really that tired, the nightmare had long dispelled all thoughts of going straight back to sleep, so he finds a comfortable position and keeps his eye on his friend.  
  
Sherlock tries to keep himself still. But when he shuts his eyes, he's pulled back into his fantasies, fascinated with the possibilities of having John in his bed. Except that this is no dream, and there are no possibilities, not like the ones he's currently imagining. He shifts his hips in discomfort and tries to think of anything but how close he is to John, how exposed they both are, sleeping only in their underwear. He can almost feel John's gaze on him, and he knows which look he'll find on that fascinatingly expressive face; gentle, concerned, so tender it threatens to break Sherlock's heart. He can't resist craning his neck to see it, and when he does he groans softly. "John..."  
  
"Hmm?" John instinctively moves closer as he whispers, "Sherlock? You OK?"  
  
John's forehead is creased into those endearing worry lines that Sherlock always wants to press smooth, and before he can think to stop himself, he finally does. Only, he does it with his lips, and it takes him a moment to register that the fact that he's feeling John's skin against his lips, however marvellous it feels, is definitely a bit not good. He pulls back and turns away. "I'm sorry, I..." He falls silent, curling up into himself. There's nothing he can say.  
  
John takes a moment to process what just happened, pinching his own thigh to check, yes, he is awake, this isn't another dream. He reaches over, resting his hand on Sherlock's hip through the tangle of blankets, and shuffles his body a bit closer. He rests his forehead on the nape of Sherlock's neck. "It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine. Remember?" He hesitates before punctuating the sentence with a brief kiss to Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
"Oh..." For a moment that's all Sherlock can say. This is... happening, then. This is real. John isn't leaving, isn't shouting at him, rejecting him. He almost laughs, then, because he realises that if he hadn't been blinded by fear, he would have known; John is accepting him. Of course he is. That's what John had been doing from the start. Accepting his brilliance and his madness and all that came with it, never once truly deciding he'd had enough. John will stay, because that's what he always does. Sherlock won't have to be alone again. Sherlock lets out a heavy sigh of relief. He reaches back and takes John's hand, pulling it forward and kissing his palm. "John... Thank you."  
  
He closes the gap between them, curling his knees behind Sherlock's, tucking his face into the crook of his neck. He smiles. This is more than he'd ever expected Sherlock to give, and he's grateful for every second. "Thank you ," he mumbles.  
  
Sherlock closes his eyes. This must be what peace feels like; being exactly where you belong. "You've got nothing to thank me for." He tightens his hold on John's hand a bit. "Not after all you've done for me."  
  
"I don't do anything except follow you around and patch you up, you daft sod," he says quietly. "And nag you to eat once in a while."  
  
"Idiot," Sherlock sighs happily. "I've told you before, John. I'd be lost without my blogger. I need you. You illuminate my brilliance. You take care of me, protect me, keep me from being alone. You heal wounds I'd forgotten I had. And you make me feel human, like more than a mind. You are invaluable to me."  
  
"Oh. You're quite invaluable to me, too, you know." He presses another kiss to Sherlock's shoulder, his lips lingering on the soft, pale skin. He's worried his voice will falter even more, if he carries on talking. "Staying," he manages, hoping Sherlock will understand, as he hugs him closer.  
  
"Good." Sherlock presses John's hand to his heart and leans back into the embrace. "I'm not going anywhere either. I'd have to be the worst kind of idiot -" He laughs gently. "Worse than Anderson - to ever let you go."  
  
"You'll ruin the mood, mentioning him," John giggles slightly, pressing his face into Sherlock's hair to stifle the sound. "Should have said something before, you daft sod."  
  
Sherlock shakes his head. "I couldn't, John. I thought... You were always protesting, whenever people assumed we were dating... I never thought you would... I never thought I could be so lucky."  
  
"Married to your work? Remember that? I only protested because I thought it might bother you. And as you may have noticed, any other relationship I attempted was doomed to failure, from the start. I always had someone else on my mind." John takes the liberty of kissing just below Sherlock's ear, before whispering, "you."  
  
Sherlock shivers slightly in pleasure. "I see. Although I'd like to point out that you long ago became an essential part of my work. Surely you could have figured that out."  
  
"Well, we make a lovely pair of idiots together, don't we." He rolls onto his back, untangling himself from Sherlock's hold. "Shoulder aches. More comfortable on my back, sorry. Come here, hm?"  
  
Sherlock chuckles. "Yes, we do." He tucks some blankets between their waists and rolls over, resting his head lightly on John's chest and looking up at him. "This okay?"  
  
"Of course," John replies, weaving his fingers into the messy dark curls resting above his heart. "More than okay."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written during an RP with an unknown stranger (I wrote the John sections, they wrote for Sherlock). I really enjoyed it, and I think it deserves a wider audience, so I took the liberty of cleaning it up a bit and posting it here. Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Comments and criticism are always welcome - if you spot a typo or mistake, just let me know, I'll get it fixed quick sharp.


End file.
